"No-o, I'M not. But in your case--well, I'll leave it to any fair-minded person--"

And so on until Mr. Price stamped disgustedly out of the office.It was easy enough, and required nothing brilliant in the way ofstrategy or repartee, to turn Issachar's attack into retreat. Butall the rest of that afternoon Albert was conscious of thatpeculiar feeling of uneasiness. After supper that night he did notgo down town at once but sat in his room thinking deeply. Thesubjects of his thoughts were Edwin Raymond, the young chap fromNew York, Yale, and "The Neck"--and Helen Kendall. He succeededonly in thinking himself into an even more uneasy and unpleasantstate of mind. Then he walked moodily down to the post-office. Hewas a little late for the mail and the laughing and chatting groupswere already coming back after its distribution. One such group hemet was made up of half a dozen young people on their way to thedrug store for ices and sodas. Helen was among them and with herwas young Raymond. They called to him to join them, but hepretended not to hear.

Now, in all the years of their acquaintance it had not onceoccurred to Albert Speranza that his interest in Helen Kendall wasanything more than that of a friend and comrade. He liked her, hadenjoyed her society--when he happened to be in the mood to wishsociety--and it pleased him to feel that she was interested in hisliterary efforts and his career. She was the only girl in SouthHarniss who would have "talked turkey" to him as she had on the dayof their adventure at High Point Light and he rather admired herfor it. But in all his dreams of romantic attachments andsentimental adventure, and he had such dreams of course, she hadnever played a part. The heroines of these dreams were beautifuland mysterious strangers, not daughters of Cape Cod clergymen.

But now, thanks to Issy's mischievous hints, his feelings were in apuzzled and uncomfortable state. He was astonished to find that hedid not relish the idea of Helen's being particularly interested inEd Raymond. He, himself, had not seen her as frequently of late,she having been busy with her war work and he with his own interests.But that, according to his view, was no reason why she should permitRaymond to become friendly to the point of causing people to talk.He was not ready to admit that he himself cared, in a sentimentalway, for Helen, but he resented any other fellow's daring to do so.And she should not have permitted it, either. As a matter of fact,Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, hitherto reigning undisputed king ofhearts in South Harniss, was for the first time in his imperial lifefeeling the pangs of jealousy.

He stalked gloomily on to the post-office. Gertie Kendrick, on thearm of Sam Thatcher, passed him and he did not even notice her.Gertie whispered to Sam that he, Albert, was a big stuck-upnothing, but she looked back over Sam's shoulder, nevertheless.Albert climbed the post-office steps and walked over to the rack ofletter boxes. The Snow box contained little of interest to him,and he was turning away when he heard his name spoken.

"Good evening, Mr. Speranza," said a feminine voice.

Albert turned again, to find Jane Kelsey and another young lady,a stranger, standing beside him. Miss Kelsey was one of SouthHarniss's summer residents. The Kelsey "cottage," which was largerby considerable than the Snow house, was situated on the Bay Road,the most exclusive section of the village. Once, and not so manyyears before, the Bay Road was contemptuously referred to as"Poverty Lane" and dwellers along its winding, weed-grown trackvied with one another in shiftless shabbiness. But now allshabbiness had disappeared and many-gabled "cottages" proudly stoodwhere the shanties of the Poverty Laners once humbly leaned.

Albert had known Jane Kelsey for some time. They had met at one ofthe hotel tea-dances during his second summer in South Harniss. Heand she were not intimate friends exactly, her mother saw to that,but they were well acquainted. She was short and piquant, had anose which freckled in the Cape Cod sunshine, and she talked andlaughed easily.

"Good evening, Mr. Speranza," she said, again. "You looked so veryforlorn I couldn't resist speaking. Do tell us why you are so sad;we're dying to know."

Albert, taken by surprise, stammered that he didn't know that hewas sad. Miss Kelsey laughed merrily and declared that everyonewho saw him knew it at once. "Oh, excuse me, Madeline," she added."I forgot that you and Mr. Speranza had not met. Of course asyou're going to live in South Harniss you must know him withoutwaiting another minute. Everybody knows everybody down here. Heis Albert Speranza--and we sometimes call him Albert because hereeverybody calls everyone else by their first names. There, now youknow each other and it's all very proper and formal.

The young lady who was her companion smiled. The smile wasdistinctly worth looking at, as was the young lady herself, forthat matter.

"Well, I don't know much about South Harniss introductions, butisn't it customary to mention names? You haven't told him mine."

Miss Kelsey laughed in high delight. "Oh, how perfectly ridiculous!"she exclaimed. "Albert--Mr. Speranza, I mean--this is my friendMiss Madeline Fosdick. She is from New York and she has decided tospend her summers in South Harniss--which _I_ consider very goodjudgment. Her father is going to build a cottage for her to spendthem in down on the Bay Road on the hill at the corner above theInlet. But of course you've heard of THAT!"

Of course he had. The purchase of the Inlet Hill land by FletcherFosdick, the New York banker, and the price paid Solomon Dadgettfor that land, had been the principal topics of conversation aroundSouth Harniss supper tables for the past ten days. Captain LoteSnow had summed up local opinion of the transaction when he said:"We-ll, Sol Dadgett's been talkin' in prayer-meetin' ever since Ican remember about the comin' of Paradise on earth. Judgin' by theprice he got for the Inlet Hill sand heap he must have cal'latedParadise had got here and he was sellin' the golden streets by therunnin' foot." Or, as Laban Keeler put it: "They say King Solomanwas a wise man, but I guess likely 'twas a good thing for him thatSol Dadgett wasn't alive in his time. King Sol would have neededall his wisdom to keep Dadgett from talkin' him into buying theJerusalem salt-ma'sh to build the temple on. . . . Um. . . .Yes--yes--yes."

So Albert, as he shook hands with Miss Fosdick, regarded her withunusual interest. And, judging by the way in which she looked athim, she too was interested. After some minutes of the usualconventional summer-time chat the young gentleman suggested thatthey adjourn to the drug store for refreshments. The invitationwas accepted, the vivacious Miss Kelsey acting as spokesman--orspokeswoman--in the matter.

"I think you must be a mind-reader, Mr. Speranza," she declared."I am dying for a sundae and I have just discovered that I haven'tmy purse or a penny with me. I should have been reduced to thehumiliation of borrowing from Madeline here, or asking that deafold Burgess man to trust me until to-morrow. And he is sofrightfully deaf," she added in explanation, "that when I asked himthe last time he made me repeat it until I thought I should die ofshame, or exhaustion, one or the other. Every time I shouted hewould say 'Hey?' and I was obliged to shout again. Of course, theplace was crowded, and-- Oh, well, I don't like to even thinkabout it. Bless you, bless you, Albert Speranza! And do pleaselet's hurry!"

When they entered the drug store--it also sold, according to itssign, "Cigars, soda, ice-cream, patent medicines, candy, knick-knacks, chewing gum, souvenirs and notions"--the sextette of whichHelen Kendall made one was just leaving. She nodded pleasantly toAlbert and he nodded in return, but Ed Raymond's careless bow hedid not choose to see. He had hitherto rather liked that younggentleman; now he felt a sudden but violent detestation for him.

Sundaes pleasant to the palate and disastrous to all but youthfuldigestions were ordered. Albert's had a slight flavor of gall andwormwood, but he endeavored to counterbalance this by the sweetnessderived from the society of Jane Kelsey and her friend. Hisconversation was particularly brilliant and sparkling that evening.Jane laughed much and chatted more. Miss Fosdick was quieter, butshe, too, appeared to be enjoying herself. Jane demanded to knowhow the poems were developing. She begged him to have aninspiration now-- "Do, PLEASE, so that Madeline and I can seeyou." It seemed to be her idea that having an inspiration wassimilar to having a fit. Miss Fosdick laughed at this, but shedeclared that she adored poetry and specified certain poems whichwere objects of her especial adoration. The conversationthereafter became what Miss Kelsey described as "high brow," andtook the form of a dialogue between Miss Fosdick and Albert. Itwas interrupted by the arrival of the Kelsey limousine, whichrolled majestically up to the drug store steps. Jane spied itfirst.

"Thank you, Mr. Speranza," she said. "I have enjoyed our poetrytalk SO much. It must be wonderful to write as you do. Goodnight."

She looked admiringly into his eyes as she said it. In spite ofthe gall and wormwood Albert found it not at all unpleasant to belooked at in that way by a girl like Madeline Fosdick. Hisreflections on that point were interrupted by a voice from the car.

"Come, Madeline, come," it said, fussily. "What ARE you waitingfor?"

Albert caught a glimpse of a majestic figure which, seated besideMrs. Kelsey on the rear seat of the limousine, towered above thatshort, plump lady as a dreadnaught towers above a coal barge. Hesurmised this figure to be that of the maternal Fosdick. Madelineclimbed in beside her parent and the limousine rolled away.

Albert's going-to-bed reflections that evening were divided inflavor, like a fruit sundae, a combination of sweet and sour. Thesour was furnished by thoughts of Edwin Raymond and Helen Kendall,the former's presumption in daring to seek her society as he did,and Helen's amazing silliness in permitting such a thing. Thesweet, of course, was furnished by a voice which repeated to hismemory the words, "It must be wonderful to write as you do." Alsothe tone of that voice and the look in the eyes.

Could he have been privileged to hear the closing bits of aconversation which was taking place at that moment his reflectionsmight have been still further saccharined. Miss Jane Kelsey wassaying: "And NOW what do you think of our Cape Cod poet? Didn't Ipromise you to show you something you couldn't find on FifthAvenue?" And to this Miss Madeline Fosdick made reply: "I thinkhe is the handsomest creature I ever saw. And so clever! Why, heis wonderful, Jane! How in the world does he happen to be livinghere--all the time?"

It is perhaps, on the whole, a good thing that Albert Speranzacould not hear this. It is certainly a good thing that CaptainZelotes Snow did not hear it.

And although the balance of sweet and sour in Albert's mind thatnight was almost even, the sour predominated next day and continuedto predominate. Issachar Price had sowed the seed of jealousy inthe mind of the assistant bookkeeper of Z. Snow and Company, andthat seed took root and grew as it is only too likely to do undersuch circumstances. That evening Albert walked again to the post-office. Helen was not there, neither was Miss Kelsey or MissFosdick. He waited for a time and then determined to call at theKendall home, something he had not done for some time. As he cameup to the front walk, between the arbor-vitae hedges, he saw thatthe parlor windows were alight. The window shade was but partiallydrawn and beneath it he could see into the room. Helen was seatedat the piano and Edwin Raymond was standing beside her, ready toturn the page of her music.

Albert whirled on his heel and walked out of the yard and down thestreet toward his own home. His attitude of mind was a curiousone. He had a mind to wait until Raymond left and then go intothe Kendall parlor and demand of Helen to know what she meant byletting that fellow make such a fool of himself. What right hadhe--Raymond--to call upon her, and turn her music and--and set thewhole town talking? Why-- Oh, he could think of many things toask and say. The trouble was that the saying of them would, hefelt sure, be distinctly bad diplomacy on his part. No one--noteven he--could talk to Helen Kendall in that fashion; not unlesshe wished it to be their final conversation.

So he went home, to fret and toss angrily and miserably half thenight. He had never before considered himself in the slightestdegree in love with Helen, but he had taken for granted the thoughtthat she liked him better than anyone else. Now he was beginningto fear that perhaps she did not, and, with his temperament,wounded vanity and poetic imagination supplied the rest. Within afortnight he considered himself desperately in love with her.

During this fortnight he called at the parsonage, the Kendall home,several times. On the first of these occasions the Reverend Mr.Kendall, having just completed a sermon dealing with the war and,being full of his subject, read the said sermon to his daughter andto Albert. The reading itself lasted for three-quarters of an hourand Mr. Kendall's post-argument and general dissertation on Germanperfidy another hour after that. By that time it was late andAlbert went home. The second call was even worse, for Ed Raymondcalled also and the two young men glowered at each other until teno'clock. They might have continued to glower indefinitely, forneither meant to leave before the other, but Helen announced thatshe had some home-study papers to look over and she knew they wouldexcuse her under the circumstances. On that hint they departedsimultaneously, separating at the gate and walking with deliberatedignity in opposite directions.

At his third attempt, however, Albert was successful to the extentthat Helen was alone when he called and there was no school work tointerrupt. But in no other respect was the interview satisfactory.All that week he had been boiling with the indignation of thelanded proprietor who discovers a trespasser on his estate, andbefore this call was fifteen minutes old his feelings had boiledover.

"What IS the matter with you, Al?" asked Helen. "Do tell me andlet's see if I can't help you out of your trouble."

Her visitor flushed. "Trouble?" he repeated, stiffly. "I don'tknow what you mean."

"Oh yes, do. You must. What IS the matter?"

"There is nothing the matter with me."

"Nonsense! Of course there is. You have scarcely spoken a word ofyour own accord since you came, and you have been scowling like athundercloud all the time. Now what is it? Have I done somethingyou don't like?"

"There is nothing the matter, I tell you."

"Please don't be so silly. Of course there is. I thought theremust be something wrong the last time you were here, that evening,when Ed called, too. It seemed to me that you were rather queerthen. Now you are queerer still. What is it?"

This straightforward attack, although absolutely characteristic ofHelen, was disconcerting. Albert met it by an attack of his own.

"Helen," he demanded, "what does that Raymond fellow mean by comingto see you as he does?"

Now whether or not Helen was entirely in the dark as to the causeof her visitor's "queerness" is a question not to be answered here.She was far from being a stupid young person and it is at leastprobable that she may have guessed a little of the truth. But,being feminine, she did not permit Albert to guess that she hadguessed. If her astonishment at the question was not entirelysincere, it certainly appeared to be so.

"What does he mean?" she repeated. "What does he mean by comingto see me? Why, what do YOU mean? I should think that was thequestion. Why shouldn't he come to see me, pray?"

Now Albert has a dozen reasons in his mind, each of which was tohim sufficiently convincing. But expressing those reasons to HelenKendall he found singularly difficult. He grew confused andstammered.

"Well--well, because he has no business to come here so much," wasthe best he could do. Helen, strange to say, was not satisfied.

"Has no business to?" she repeated. "Why, of course he has. Iasked him to come."

"You did? Good heavens, you don't LIKE him, do you?"

"Of course I like him. I think he is a very nice fellow. Don'tyou?"

"No, I don't."

"Why not?"

"Well--well, because I don't, that's all. He has no business tomonopolize you all the time. Why, he is here about every night inthe week, or you're out with him, down town, or--or somewhere.Everybody is talking about it and--"

"Wait a minute, please. You say everybody is talking about EdRaymond and me. What do you mean by that? What are they saying?"

"But I do mind. Who have you heard saying this 'lot of things'about me?"

"Nobody, I tell you. . . . Oh, well, if you must know, Issy Pricesaid--well, he said you and this Raymond fellow were what he called'keeping company' and--and that the whole town was talking aboutit."

She slowly shook her head.

"Issy Price!" she repeated. "And you listened to what Issy Pricesaid. Issy Price, of all people!"

"Well--well, he said everyone else said the same thing."

"Did he say more than that?"

"No, but that was enough, wasn't it. Besides, the rest was plain.I could see it myself. He is calling here about every night in theweek, and--and being around everywhere with you and--and-- Oh,anyone can see!"

Helen's usually placid temper was beginning to ruffle.

"Very well," she said, "then they may see. Why shouldn't he callhere if he wishes--and I wish? Why shouldn't I be 'around withhim,' as you say? Why not?"

"Well, because I don't like it. It isn't the right thing for youto do. You ought to be more careful of--of what people say."

He realized, almost as soon as this last sentence was blurted out,the absolute tactlessness of it. The quiet gleam of humor he hadso often noticed in Helen's eyes was succeeded now by a look he hadnever before seen there.

She did not answer immediately. Then she said, "I don't knowwhether I shall or not. I think I shall have to think it over.And perhaps you had better go now."

"But I'M sorry, Helen. It was a fool thing to say. I don't knowwhy I was such an idiot. Do forgive me; come!"

She slowly shook her head. "I can't--yet," she said. "And thisyou must understand: If Ed Raymond, or anyone else, calls on meand I choose to permit it, or if I choose to go out with himanywhere at any time, that is my affair and not 'everyone else's'--which includes Issachar Price. And my FRIENDS--my real friends--will not listen to mean, ridiculous gossip. Good night."

So that was the end of that attempt at asserting the Divine Rightby the South Harniss king of hearts. Albert was more miserablethan ever, angrier than ever--not only at Raymond and Helen, but athimself--and his newly-discovered jealousy burned with a brighterand greener flame. The idea of throwing everything overboard,going to Canada and enlisting in the Canadian Army--an idea whichhad had a strong and alluring appeal ever since the war broke out--came back with redoubled force. But there was the agreement withhis grandfather. He had given his word; how could he break it?Besides, to go away and leave his rival with a clear field did notappeal to him, either.

On a Wednesday evening in the middle of September the final socialevent of the South Harniss summer season was to take place. TheSociety for the Relief of the French Wounded was to give a dance inthe ballroom of the hotel, the proceeds from the sale of tickets tobe devoted to the purpose defined by the name of this organization.Every last member of the summer colony was to attend, of course,and all those of the permanent residents who aspired to socialdistinction and cared to pay the high price of admission.

Albert was going, naturally. That is, he had at first planned togo, then--after the disastrous call at the parsonage--decided thathe would go under no circumstances, and at the last changed hismind once more to the affirmative. Miss Madeline Fosdick, JaneKelsey's friend, was responsible for the final change. She it waswho had sold him his ticket and urged him to be present. He andshe had met several times since the first meeting at the post-office. Usually when they met they talked concerning poetry andkindred lofty topics. Albert liked Miss Fosdick. It is hard notto like a pretty, attractive young lady who takes such a flatteringinterest in one's aspirations and literary efforts. The "high browchit-chats"--quoting Miss Kelsey again--were pleasant in many ways;for instance, they were in the nature of a tonic for weakened self-esteem, and the Speranza self-esteem was suffering just at thistime, from shock.

Albert had, when he first heard that the dance was to take place,intended inviting Helen to accompany him. He had taken heracceptance for granted, he having acted as her escort to so manydances and social affairs. So he neglected inviting her and thencame Issy's mischief-making remarks and the trouble which followed.So, as inviting her was out of the question, he resolved not toattend, himself. But Miss Fosdick urged so prettily that he boughthis ticket and promised to be among those present.

"Provided, of course," he ventured, being in a reckless mood, "thatyou save me at least four dances." She raised her brows in mockdismay.

"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed. "I'm afraid I couldn't do that.Four is much too many. One I will promise, but no more."

However, as he persisted, she yielded another. He was to have twodances and, possibly an "extra."

"And you are a lucky young man," declared Jane Kelsey, who had alsopromised two. "If you knew how many fellows have begged for justone. But, of course," she added, "THEY were not poets, secondeditions of Tennyson and Keats and all that. It is Keats who wasthe poet, isn't it, Madeline?" she added, turning to her friend."Oh, I'm so glad I got it right the first time. I'm always mixinghim up with Watts, the man who invented the hymns and wrote thesteam-engine--or something."

The Wednesday evening in the middle of September was a beautifulone and the hotel was crowded. The Item, in its account thefollowing week, enumerating those present, spoke of "Our newresidents, Mrs. Fletcher Story Fosdick and Miss Madeline Fosdick,who are to occupy the magnificent residence now about being builton the Inlet Hill by their husband and father, respectively,Fletcher Story Fosdick, Esquire, the well-known New York banker."The phrasing of this news note caused much joy in South Harniss,and the Item gained several new and hopeful subscribers.

But when the gushing reporter responsible for this added that "MissFosdick was a dream of loveliness on this occasion" he was statingonly the truth. She was very beautiful indeed and a certain youngman who stepped up to claim his first dance realized the fact. Thesaid young man was outwardly cool, but red-hot within, the internalrise in temperature being caused by the sight of Helen Kendallcrossing the floor arm in arm with Edwin Raymond. Albert's facewas white with anger, except for two red spots on his cheeks, andhis black eyes flashed. Consequently he, too, was considered quiteworth the looking at and feminine glances followed him.

"But he isn't a foreigner," she added. "He lives here in SouthHarniss all the year. He is a poet, I believe, and Madeline, whoknows about such things--inherits it from her mother, I suppose--says his poetry is beautiful."

Her companion watched the subject of their conversation as, withMiss Fosdick, he moved lightly and surely through the crowd on thefloor.

"He LOOKS like a poet," she said, slowly. "He is wonderfullyhandsome, so distinguished, and SUCH a dancer! But why should apoet live here--all the year? Is that all he does for a living--write poetry?"

Jane pretended not to hear her and, a masculine friend coming toclaim his dance, seized the opportunity to escape. However,another "sitter out" supplied the information.

"He is a sort of assistant bookkeeper at the lumber yard by therailroad station," said this person. "His grandfather owns theplace, I believe. One would never guess it to look at him now. . . .Humph! I wonder if Mrs. Fosdick knows. They say she is--well,not democratically inclined, to say the least."

Albert had his two promised dances with Madeline Fosdick, but the"extra" he did not obtain. Mrs. Fosdick, the ever watchful, hadseen and made inquiries. Then she called her daughter to her andissued an ultimatum.

"I am SO sorry," said the young lady, in refusing the plea for the"extra." "I should like to, but I--but Mother has asked me todance with a friend of ours from home. I--I AM sorry, really."

She looked as if she meant it. Albert was sorry, too. This hadbeen a strange evening, another combination of sweet and sour. Heglanced across the floor and saw Helen and the inevitable Raymondemerge together from the room where the refreshments were served.Raging jealousy seized him at the sight. Helen had not been nearhim, had scarcely spoken to him since his arrival. He forgot thathe had not been near nor spoken to her.

He danced twice or thrice more with acquaintances, "summer" orpermanent, and then decided to go home. Madeline Fosdick he saw atthe other end of the room surrounded by a group of young masculinity.Helen he could not see at the moment. He moved in the direction ofthe coatroom. Just as he reached the door he was surprised to seeEd Raymond stride by him, head down and looking anything but joyful.He watched and was still more astonished to see the young man gethis coat and hat from the attendant and walk out of the hotel. Hesaw him stride away along the drive and down the moonlit road. Hewas, apparently, going home--going home alone.

He got his own coat and hat and, before putting them on, steppedback for a final look at the ballroom. As he stood by thecloakroom door someone touched his arm. Turning he saw Helen.

"Why--why, Helen!" he exclaimed, in surprise.

"Are you going home?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Yes, I--"

"And you are going alone?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind--would it trouble you too much to walk with me asfar as our house?"

"Why--why of course not. I shall be delighted. But I thought you--I thought Ed Raymond--"

"No, I'm alone. Wait here; I will be ready in just a minute."

She hurried away. He gazed after her in bewilderment. She and hehad scarcely exchanged a word during the evening, and now, when theevening was almost over, she came and asked him to be her escort.What in the wide world--?

The minute she had specified had hardly elapsed when she reappeared,ready for out of doors. She took his arm and they walked down thesteps of the hotel, past the group of lights at the head of thedrive and along the road, with the moon shining down upon it and thedamp, salt breeze from the ocean blowing across it. They walked forthe first few minutes in silence. There were a dozen questions hewould have liked to ask, but his jealous resentment had not entirelyvanished and his pride forbade. It was she who spoke first.

"Albert," she said, "you must think this very odd."

He knew what she meant, but he did not choose to admit it.

"What?" he asked.

"Why, my asking you to walk home with me, after--after our trouble.It is strange, I suppose, particularly as you had not spoken beforethis whole evening."

"_I_--spoken to YOU? Why, you bowed to me when I came into theroom and that was the only sign of recognition you gave me untiljust now. Not a dance--not one."

"Did you expect me to look you up and beg you to dance with me?"

"Did you expect me to trot at that fellow's heels and wait mychance to get a word with you, to take what he left? I should saynot! By George, Helen, I--"

She interrupted him. "Hush, hush!" she pleaded. "This is all sosilly, so childish. And we mustn't quarrel any more. I have madeup my mind to that. We mustn't."

"Humph! All right, _I_ had no thought of quarreling in thebeginning. But there are some things a self-respecting chap can'tstand. I have SOME pride, I hope."

She caught her breath quickly. "Do you think," she asked, "that itwas no sacrifice to my pride to beg you to walk home with me?After--after the things you said the other evening? Oh, Albert,how could you say them!"

"Well--" he hesitated, and then added, "I told you I was sorry."

"Yes, but you weren't really sorry. You must have believed thethings that hateful Issachar Price said or you wouldn't haverepeated them. . . . Oh, but never mind that now, I didn't mean tospeak of it at all. I asked you to walk home with me because Iwanted to make up our quarrel. Yes, that was it. I didn't want togo away and feel that you and I were not as good friends as ever.So, you see, I put all MY pride to one side--and asked."

One phrase in one sentence of this speech caught and held the youngman's attention. He forgot the others.

"You are going away?" he repeated. "What do you mean? Where areyou going?"

"I am going to Cambridge to study. I am going to take some coursesat Radcliffe. You know I told you I hoped to some day. Well, ithas been arranged. I am to live with my cousin, father's halfsister in Somerville. Father is well enough to leave now and Ihave engaged a capable woman, Mrs. Peters, to help Maria with thehousework. I am going Friday morning, the day after to-morrow."

He stopped short to stare at her.

"You are going away?" he asked, again. "You are going to do thatand--and-- Why didn't you tell me before?"

It was a characteristic return to his attitude of outraged royalty.She had made all these plans, had arranged to do this thing, and hehad not been informed. At another time Helen might have laughed athim; she generally did when he became what she called the "GrandBashaw." She did not laugh now, however, but answered quietly.

"I didn't know I was going to do it until a little more than a weekago," she said. "And I have not seen you since then."

"No, you've been too busy seeing someone else."

She lost patience for the instant. "Oh, don't, don't, don't!" shecried. "I know who you mean, of course. You mean Ed Raymond.Don't you know why he has been at the house so much of late? Whyhe and I have been so much together? Don't you really know?"

"What? . . . No, I don't--except that you and he wanted to betogether."

"And it didn't occur to you that there might be some other reason?You forgot, I suppose, that he and I were appointed on the TicketCommittee for this very dance?"

He had forgotten it entirely. Now he remembered perfectly themeeting of the French Relief Society at which the appointment hadbeen made. In fact Helen herself had told him of it at the time.For the moment he was staggered, but he rallied promptly.

"Committee meetings may do as an excuse for some things," he said,"but they don't explain the rest--his calls here every otherevening and--and so on. Honest now, Helen, you know he hasn't beenrunning after you in this way just because he is on that committeewith you; now don't you?"

They were almost at the parsonage. The light from Mr. Kendall'sstudy window shone through the leaves of the lilac bush behind thewhite fence. Helen started to speak, but hesitated. He repeatedhis question.

"Now don't you?" he urged.

"Why, why, yes, I suppose I do," she said, slowly. "I do know--now. But I didn't even think of such a thing until--until you camethat evening and told me what Issy Price said."

"You mean you didn't guess at all?"

"Well--well, perhaps I--I thought he liked to come--liked to-- Oh,what is the use of being silly! I did think he liked to call, butonly as a friend. He was jolly and lots of fun and we were bothfond of music. I enjoyed his company. I never dreamed that therewas anything more than that until you came and were so--disagreeable.And even then I didn't believe--until to-night."

Again she hesitated. "To-night?" he repeated. "What happened to-night?"

"Oh nothing. I can't tell you. Oh, why can't friends be friendsand not. . . . That is why I spoke to you, Albert, why I wanted tohave this talk with you. I was going away so soon and I couldn'tbear to go with any unfriendliness between us. There mustn't be.Don't you see?"

He heard but a part of this. The memory of Raymond's face as hehad seen it when the young man strode out of the cloakroom and outof the hotel came back to him and with it a great heart-throbbingsense of relief, of triumph. He seized her hand.

"Helen," he cried, "did he--did you tell him-- Oh, by George,Helen, you're the most wonderful girl in the world! I'm--I-- Oh,Helen, you know I--I--"

It was not his habit to be at a loss for words, but he was justthen. He tried to retain her hand, to put his arm about her.

Her face had, for a moment, been upturned. The moon at that momenthad slipped behind a cloud, but the lamplight from the window hadshown him the tears in her eyes. He was amazed. He could haveshouted, have laughed aloud from joy or triumphant exultation justthen, but to weep! What occasion was there for tears, except on EdRaymond's part?

"Oh, because I don't. It's--it is foolish. You're only a boy, youknow."

"A boy! I'm more than a year older than you are."

"Are you? Why yes, I suppose you are, really. But that doesn'tmake any difference. I guess girls are older than boys when theyare our age, lots older."

"Oh, bother all that! We aren't kids, either of us. I want you tolisten. You don't understand what I'm trying to say."

"Yes, I do. But I'm sure you don't. You are glad because you havefound you have no reason to be jealous of Ed Raymond and that makesyou say--foolish things. But I'm not going to have our friendshipspoiled in that way. I want us to be real friends, always. So youmustn't be silly."

"I'm not silly. Helen, if you won't listen to anything else, willyou listen to this? Will you promise me that while you are awayyou won't have other fellows calling on you or--or anything likethat? And I'll promise you that I'll have nothing to say toanother girl--in any way that counts, I mean. Shall we promiseeach other that, Helen? Come!"

She paused for some moment before answering, but her reply, when itcame, was firm.

"No," she said, "I don't think we should promise anything, exceptto remain friends. You might promise and then be sorry, later."

"_I_ might? How about you?"

"Perhaps we both might. So we won't take the risk. You may comeand see me to-morrow evening and say good-by, if you like. But youmustn't stay long. It is my last night with father for some timeand I mustn't cheat him out of it. Good night, Albert. I'm soglad our misunderstanding is over, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. But, Helen--"

"I must go in now. Good night."

The reflections of Alberto Speranza during his walk back to theSnow place were varied but wonderful. He thought of Raymond'shumiliation and gloried in it. He thought of Helen and rhapsodized.And if, occasionally, he thought also of the dance and of MadelineFosdick, forgive him. He was barely twenty-one and the moon wasshining.

CHAPTER IX

The good-by call the following evening was, to him at least, notvery satisfactory. Helen was tired, having been busy all day withthe final preparations for leaving, and old Mr. Kendall insistedon being present during the entire visit and in telling long andinvolved stories of the trip abroad he had made when a young manand the unfavorable opinion which he had then formed of Prussiansas traveling companions. Albert's opinion of Prussians was atleast as unfavorable as his own, but his complete and even eageragreement with each of the old gentleman's statements did not havethe effect of choking the latter off, but rather seemed to act asencouragement for more. When ten o'clock came and it was time togo Albert felt as if he had been listening to a lecture on theHohenzollerns. "Great Scott, Helen," he whispered, as she came tothe door with him, "I don't feel as if I had talked with you aminute. Why, I scarcely--"

But just here Mr. Kendall came hurrying from the sitting-room totell of one incident which he had hitherto forgotten, and so eventhis brief interval of privacy was denied. But Albert made onemore attempt.

"I'm going to run over to the station to-morrow morning to see youoff," he called from the gate. "Good night."

The morning train left at nine o'clock, and at a quarter to nineAlbert, who had kept his eye on the clock ever since eight, hishour of arriving at the office, called to Mr. Price.

"I say," he said, in a low tone and one as casual as he couldassume, "I am going to run out for a few minutes. I'll be rightback."

Issachar's response was as usual anything but low.

"Eh?" he shouted. "Goin' out? Where you goin'?"

"Oh, I'm just going out--er--on an errand."

"What kind of an errand? I was cal'latin' to run out myself for alittle spell. Can't I do your errand for you?"

"No, no. . . There, there, don't bother me any more. I'm in ahurry."

"Hurry! So'm I in a hurry. I was cal'latin' to run acrost to thedeepo and see Helen Kendall start for Boston. She's goin' thismorning; did you know it?"

Before the somewhat flustered assistant bookkeeper could replyCaptain Zelotes called from the inner office:

"Wouldn't wonder if that was where Al was bound, too," he observed."And I was thinkin' of the same thing. Suppose we all go together.Labe'll keep shop, won't you, Labe?"

Mr. Keeler looked over his spectacles. "Eh?" he observed. "Oh,yes, yes . . . yes, yes, yes. And say good-by to Helen for me,some of you, if you happen to think of it. Not that 'twill makemuch difference to her," he added, "whether she gets my good-bys ornot, but it might make some to me. . . . Um, yes, yes."

So, instead of going alone to the railway station, Albert made oneof a delegation of three. And at the station was Mr. Kendall, andtwo of the school committee, and one or two members of the churchsewing circle, and the president and secretary of the Society forthe Relief of the French Wounded. So far from being an intimateconfidential farewell, Helen's departure was in the nature of apublic ceremony with speech-making. Mr. Price made most of thespeeches, in fact the lower portion of his countenance was inviolent motion most of the ten minutes.

"Take care of yourself, Helen," he urged loudly. "Don't you worryabout your pa, we'll look out for him. And don't let none of themBoston fellers carry you off. We'll watch and see that EddieRaymond and Al here don't get into mischief while you're gone.I . . . Crimustee! Jim Young, what in time's the matter with you?Can't ye see nothin'?"

This last outburst was directed at the driver of the depot-wagon,who, wheeling a trunk on a baggage truck, had bumped violently intothe rear of Mr. Price's legs, just at the knee joint, causing theirowner to bend backward unexpectedly, and with enthusiasm.

"Can't you see nothin' when it's right in front of ye?" demandedIssachar, righteously indignant.

Jim Young winked over his shoulder at Albert. "Sorry, Is," hesaid, as he continued toward the baggage car. "I didn't notice youWAS in front of me."

Even after Mr. Price had thus been pushed out of the foreground, soto speak, Albert was denied the opportunity of taking his place byHelen's side. Her father had a few last messages to deliver, thenCaptain Zelotes shook her hand and talked for a moment, and, afterthat, the ladies of the sewing circle and the war work society feltit their duty to, severally and jointly, kiss her good-by. Thislast was a trying operation to watch.

Then the engine bell rang and the train began to move. Albert,running beside the platform of the last car, held up his hand for afarewell clasp.

"Good-by," he said, and added in a whisper, "You'll write, won'tyou?"

"Of course. And so must you. Good-by."

The last car and the handkerchief waving figure on its platformdisappeared around the curve. The little group by the stationbroke up. Albert and his grandfather walked over to the officetogether.

"There goes a good girl, Al," was Captain Lote's only comment. "Amighty good capable girl."

Albert nodded. A moment later he lifted his hat to a group in apassing automobile.

"Who were those folks?" asked the Captain.

"The Fosdicks," was the reply. "The people who are going to builddown by the Inlet."

It was Madeline and her mother. The latter had been serenelyindifferent, but the young lady had smiled and bowed behind thematernal shoulders.

Albert did not answer. With the noise of the train which wascarrying Helen out of his life still ringing in his ears it seemedwicked even to mention another girl's name, to say nothing ofcommenting upon her good looks. For the rest of that day he was agloomy spirit, a dark shadow in the office of Z. Snow and Co.

Before the end of another fortnight the season at South Harniss wasdefinitely over. The hotel closed on the Saturday following thedance, and by October first the last of the cottages was locked andshuttered. The Kelseys went on the twentieth and the Fosdicks wentwith them. Albert met Madeline and Jane at the post-office in theevening of the nineteenth and there more farewells were said.

"Don't forget us down here in the sand, will you?" he suggested toMiss Fosdick. It was Jane Kelsey who answered.

"Oh, she won't forget," returned that young lady. "Why she hasyour photograph to remember you by."

Madeline colored becomingly and was, as Jane described it, "awfullyfussed."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, with much indignation, "I haven't anysuch thing. You know I haven't, Jane."

"Yes, you have, my dear. You have a photograph of him standingin front of the drug store and looking dreamily in at--at thestrawberry sundaes. It is a most romantic pose, really."

Albert laughed. He remembered the photograph. It was one of aseries of snapshots taken with Miss Kelsey's camera one Saturdayafternoon when a party of young people had met in front of thesundae dispensary. Jane had insisted on "snapping" everyone.

"That reminds me that I have never seen the rest of thosephotographs," he said.

"Haven't you?" exclaimed Jane. "Well, you ought to see them. Ihave Madeline's with me. It is a dream, if I do say it as I tookit."

She produced the snapshot, which showed her friend standing besidethe silver-leaf tree before the druggist's window and smiling atthe camera. It was a good likeness and, consequently, a verypretty picture.

"Isn't it a dream, just as I said?" demanded the artist. "Honestnow, isn't it?

"Why--why yes, you may, if you care for it," she said. "Thatparticular one is Jane's, anyway, and if she chooses to give itaway I don't see how I can prevent her. But why you should wantthe old thing I can't conceive. I look as stiff and wooden as asign-post."

Jane held up a protesting finger.

"Fibs, fibs, fibs," she observed. "Can't conceive why he shouldwant it! As if you weren't perfectly aware that he will wear itnext his heart and-- Oh, don't put it in THAT pocket! I said nextyour heart, and that isn't on your RIGHT side."

Albert took the photograph home and stuck it between the frame andglass of his bureau. Then came a sudden remembrance of his partingwith Helen and with it a twinge of conscience. He had begged herto have nothing to do with any other fellow. True she had refusedto promise and consequently he also was unbound, but that made nodifference--should not make any. So he put the photograph at theback of the drawer where he kept his collars and ties, with aresolve never to look at it. He did not look at it--very often.

Then came another long winter. He ground away at the bookkeeping--he was more proficient at it, but he hated it as heartily as ever--and wrote a good deal of verse and some prose. For the first timehe sold a prose article, a short story, to a minor magazine. Hewrote long letters to Helen and she replied. She was studyinghard, she liked her work, and she had been offered the opportunityto tutor in a girls' summer camp in Vermont during July and Augustand meant to accept provided her father's health continued good.Albert protested violently against her being absent from SouthHarniss for so long. "You will scarcely be home at all," he wrote."I shall hardly see you. What am I going to do? As it is now Imiss you--" and so on for four closely written pages. Havinggotten into the spirit of composition he, so to speak, gloried inhis loneliness, so much so that Helen was moved to remonstrate."Your letter made me almost miserable," she wrote, "until I hadread it over twice. Then I began to suspect that you were enjoyingyour wretchedness, or enjoying writing about it. I truly don'tbelieve anyone--you especially--could be quite as lonesome as allthat. Honestly now, Albert, weren't you exaggerating a little? Irather think you were?"

He had been, of course, but it irritated him to think that sherecognized the fact. She had an uncanny faculty of seeing throughhis every pretense. In his next letter he said nothing whateverabout being lonesome.

At home, and at the office, the war was what people talked aboutmost of the time. Since the Lusitania's sinking Captain Zeloteshad been a battle charger chafing at the bit. He wanted to fightand to fight at once.

"We've got to do it, Mother," he declared, over and over again."Sooner or later we've got to fight that Kaiser gang. What are wewaitin' for; will somebody tell me that?"

Olive, as usual, was mild and unruffled.

"Probably the President knows as much about it as you and me,Zelotes," she suggested. "I presume likely he has his ownreasons."

"Humph! When Seth Bassett got up in the night and took a drink outof the bottle of Paris Green by mistake 'Bial Cahoon asked him whatin time he kept Paris Green in his bedroom for, anyhow. All thatSeth would say was that he had his own reasons. The rest of thetown was left to guess what those reasons was. That's what thePresident's doin'--keepin' us guessin'. By the everlastin', if Iwas younger I'd ship aboard a British lime-juicer and go and fight,myself!"

It was Rachel Ellis who caused the Captain to be a bit morerestrained in his remarks.

"Because the first thing you know he'll be startin' for Canada toenlist. He's been crazy to do it for 'most a year."

"He has? How do you know he has?"

"Because he's told me so, more'n once."

Her employer looked at her.

"Humph!" he grunted. "He seems to tell you a good many things hedoesn't tell the rest of us."

The housekeeper nodded. "Yes," she said gravely, "I shouldn'twonder if he did." A moment later she added, "Cap'n Lote, you willbe careful, won't you? You wouldn't want Al to go off and leave Z.Snow and Company when him and you are gettin' on so much better.You ARE gettin' on better, ain't you?"

The captain pulled at his beard.

"Yes," he admitted, "seems as if we was. He ain't any wonder atbookkeepin', but he's better'n he used to be; and he does seem totry hard, I'll say that for him."

Rachael beamed gratification. "He'll be a Robert Penfold yet," shedeclared; "see if he isn't. So you musn't encourage him intoenlistin' in the Canadian army. You wouldn't want him to do thatany more'n the rest of us would."

The captain gazed intently into the bowl of the pipe which he hadbeen cleaning. He made no answer.

"You wouldn't want him to do that, would you?" repeated thehousekeeper.

Captain Lote blew through the pipe stem. Then he said, "No, Iwouldn't . . . but I'm darn glad he's got the spunk to WANT to doit. We may get that Portygee streak out of him, poetry and all,give us time; eh, Rachael?"

It was the first time in months that he had used the word "Portygee"in connection with his grandson. Mrs. Ellis smiled to herself.

In April the arbutus buds began to appear above the leaf moldbetween the scrub oaks in the woods, and the walls of FletcherFosdick's new summer home began to rise above the young pines onthe hill by the Inlet in the Bay Road. The Item kept its readersinformed, by weekly installments, of the progress made by thebuilders.

The lumber for Mr. Fletcher Fosdick's new cottage is beginning tobe hauled to his property on Inlet Hill in this town. Ourenterprising firm of South Harniss dealers, Z. Snow & Co., arefurnishing said lumber. Mr. Nehemiah Nickerson is to do the masonwork. Mr. Fosdick shows good judgment as well as a commendablespirit in engaging local talent in this way. We venture to say hewill never regret it.

A week later:

Mr. Fletcher Fosdick's new residence is beginning building, thefoundation being pretty near laid.

And the following week:

The Fosdick mansion is growing fast. South Harniss may well beproud of its new ornament.

The rise in three successive numbers from "cottage" to "mansion" isperhaps sufficient to indicate that the Fosdick summer home was tobe, as Issachar Price described it, "Some considerable house! Yessir, by crimus, some considerable!"

In June, Helen came home for a week. At the end of the week sheleft to take up her new duties at the summer camp for girls inVermont. Albert and she were together a good deal during thatweek. Anticipating her arrival, the young man's ardent imaginationhad again fanned what he delighted to think of as his love for herinto flame. During the last months of the winter he had not playedthe languishing swain as conscientiously as during the autumn.Like the sailor in the song "is 'eart was true to Poll" always, buthe had broken away from his self-imposed hermitage in his room atthe Snow place several times to attend sociables, entertainmentsand, even, dances. Now, when she returned he was eagerly awaitingher and would have haunted the parsonage before and after workinghours of every day as well as the evening, if she had permitted,and when with her assumed a proprietary air which was so obviousthat even Mr. Price felt called upon to comment on it.

"Say, Al," drawled Issachar, "cal'late you've cut out Eddie Raymondalong with Helen, ain't ye? Don't see him hangin' around any sinceshe got back, and the way you was actin' when I see you struttin'into the parsonage yard last night afore mail time made me thinkyou must have a first mortgage on Helen and her pa and the houseand the meetin'-house and two-thirds of the graveyard. I never seesuch an important-lookin' critter in MY life. Haw, haw! Eh? How'bout it?"

Albert did not mind the Price sarcasm; instead he felt rathergrateful to have the proletariat recognize that he had triumphedagain. The fly in his ointment, so to speak, was the fact thatHelen herself did not in the least recognize that triumph. Shelaughed at him.

"Don't look at me like that, please, please, don't," she begged.

"Why not?" with a repetition of the look.

"Because it is silly."

"Silly! Well, I like that! Aren't you and I engaged? Or just thesame as engaged?"

"No, of course we are not."

"But we promised each other--"

"No, we did not. And you know we didn't."

"Helen, why do you treat me that way? Don't you know that--that Ijust worship the ground you tread on? Don't you know you're theonly girl in this world I could ever care for? Don't you knowthat?"

They were walking home from church Sunday morning and had reachedthe corner below the parsonage. There, screened by the thicket ofyoung silver-leafs, she stopped momentarily and looked into hisface. Then she walked on.

"Don't you know how much I care?" he repeated.

She shook her head. "You think you do now, perhaps," she said,"but you will change your mind."

"What do you mean by that? How do you know I will?"

"Because I know you. There, there, Albert, we won't quarrel, willwe? And we won't be silly. You're an awfully nice boy, but youare just a boy, you know."

He was losing his temper.

"This is ridiculous!" he declared. "I'm tired of being grandmotheredby you. I'm older than you are, and I know what I'm doing. Come,Helen, listen to me."

But she would not listen, and although she was always kind andfrank and friendly, she invariably refused to permit him to becomesentimental. It irritated him, and after she had gone theirritation still remained. He wrote her as before, although notquite so often, and the letters were possibly not quite so long.His pride was hurt and the Speranza pride was a tender andimportant part of the Speranza being. If Helen noted any change inhis letters she did not refer to it nor permit it to influence herown, which were, as always, lengthy, cheerful, and full of interestin him and his work and thoughts.

During the previous fall, while under the new influence aroused inhim by his discovery that Helen Kendall was "the most wonderfulgirl in the world," said discovery of course having been previouslymade for him by the unfortunate Raymond, he had developed a habitof wandering off into the woods or by the seashore to be alone andto seek inspiration. When a young poet is in love, or fancieshimself in love, inspiration is usually to be found whereversought, but even at that age and to one in that condition solitudeis a marked aid in the search. There were two or three spots whichhad become Albert Speranza's favorites. One was a high, wind-sweptknoll, overlooking the bay, about a half mile from the hotel,another was a secluded nook in the pine grove beside Carver's Pond,a pretty little sheet of water on the Bayport boundary. Onpleasant Saturday afternoons or Sundays, when the poetic fit was onhim, Albert, with a half dozen pencils in his pocket, and a rhymingdictionary and a scribbling pad in another, was wont to strolltowards one or the other of these two retreats. There he wouldsprawl amid the beachgrass or upon the pine-needles and dream andthink and, perhaps, ultimately write.

One fair Saturday in late June he was at the first of theserespective points. Lying prone on the beach grass at the top ofthe knoll and peering idly out between its stems at the watershimmering in the summer sun, he was endeavoring to find a subjectfor a poem which should deal with love and war as requested by theeditor of the Columbian Magazine. "Give us something with a girland a soldier in it," the editor had written. Albert's mind waslazily drifting in search of the pleasing combination.

The sun was warm, the breeze was light, the horizon was veiled witha liquid haze. Albert's mind was veiled with a similar haze andthe idea he wanted would not come. He was losing his desire tofind it and was, in fact, dropping into a doze when aroused by ablood-curdling outburst of barks and yelps and growls behind him,at his very heels. He came out of his nap with a jump and,scrambling to a sitting position and turning, he saw a small Bostonbull-terrier standing within a yard of his ankles and, apparently,trying to turn his brindled outside in, or his inside out, withspiteful ferocity. Plainly the dog had come upon him unexpectedlyand was expressing alarm, suspicion and disapproval.

Albert jerked his ankles out of the way and said "Hello, boy," inas cheerfully cordial a tone as he could muster at such shortnotice. The dog took a step forward, evidently with the idea ofalways keeping the ankles within jumping distance, showed a doublerow of healthy teeth and growled and barked with renewed violence.

"Nice dog," observed Albert. The nice dog made a snap at thenearest ankle and, balked of his prey by a frenzied kick of thefoot attached to the ankle, shrieked, snarled and gurgled like acanine lunatic.

"Go home, you ugly brute," commanded the young man, losingpatience, and looking about for a stone or stick. On the top ofthat knoll the largest stone was the size of a buckshot and thenearest stick was, to be Irish, a straw.

Flatteries and threats were alike in their result. The dog continuedto snarl and growl, darting toward the ankles occasionally.Evidently he was mustering courage for the attack. Albert indesperation scooped up a handful of sand. If worst came to worsthe might blind the creature temporarily. What would happen afterthat was not clear. Unless he might by a lucky cast fill the dog'sinterior so full of sand that--like the famous "Jumping Frog"--itwould be too heavy to navigate, he saw no way of escape from apainful bite, probably more than one. What Captain Zelotes hadformerly called his "Portygee temper" flared up.

"Oh, damn you, clear out!" he shouted, springing to his feet.

From a little way below him; in fact, from behind the next dune,between himself and the beach, a feminine voice called his name.

"Oh, Mr. Speranza!" it said. "Is it you? I'm so glad!"

Albert turned, but the moment he did so the dog made a dash at hislegs, so he was obliged to turn back again and kick violently.

"Oh, I am so glad it is you," said the voice again. "I was sure itwas a dreadful tramp. Googoo loathes tramps."

As an article of diet that meant, probably. Googoo--if that wasthe dog's name--was passionately fond of poets, that was self-evident, and intended to make a meal of this one, forthwith. Heflew at the Speranza ankles. Albert performed a most undignifiedwar dance, and dashed his handful of sand into Googoo's opencountenance. For a minute or so there was a lively shindy on topof that knoll. At the end of the minute the dog, held tightly in apair of feminine arms, was emitting growls and coughs and sand,while Madeline Fosdick and Albert Speranza were kneeling in moresand and looking at each other.

"Oh, did he bite you?" begged Miss Fosdick.

"No . . . no, I guess not," was the reply. "I--I scarcely knowyet. . . . Why, when did you come? I didn't know you were intown."

"We came yesterday. Motored from home, you know. I--be still,Goo, you bad thing! It was such a lovely day that I couldn'tresist going for a walk along the beach. I took Googoo because hedoes love it so, and--Goo, be still, I tell you! I am sure hethinks you are a tramp, out here all alone in the--in thewilderness. And what were you doing here?"

Albert drew a long breath. "I was half asleep, I guess," he said,"when he broke loose at my heels. I woke up quick enough then, asyou may imagine. And so you are here for the summer? Your newhouse isn't finished, is it?"

"No, not quite. Mother and Goo and I are at the hotel for a month.But you haven't answered my question. What were you doing off hereall alone? Have you been for a walk, too?"

"Not exactly. I--well, I come here pretty often. It is one of myfavorite hiding places. You see, I . . . don't laugh if I tellyou, will you?"

"Of course not. Go on; this is very mysterious and interesting."

"Well, I come here sometimes on pleasant days, to be alone--andwrite."

"Write? Write poetry, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how wonderful! Were you writing when I--when Goo interruptedyou?"

"No; I had made two or three attempts, but nothing that I didsatisfied me. I had just about decided to tear them up and to giveup trying for this afternoon."

"Oh, I hope you won't tear them up. I'm sure they shouldn't be.Perhaps you were not in a proper mood to judge, yourself."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps they might look a little less hopeless tosome one else. But that person would have to be really interested,and there are few people in South Harniss who know or care anythingabout poetry."

"I suppose that is true. I--I don't suppose you would care to showthem to me, would you?"

"Why," eagerly, "would you really care to see them?"

"Indeed I should! Not that my judgment or advice is worthanything, of course. But I am very, very fond of poetry, and tosee how a real poet wrote would be wonderful. And if I could helpyou, even the least little bit, it would be such an honor."

This sort of thing was balm to the Speranza spirit. Albert'stemperamental ego expanded under it like a rosebud under a summersun. Yet there was a faint shadow of doubt--she might be makingfun of him. He looked at her intently and she seemed to read histhoughts, for she said:

"Oh, I mean it! Please believe I do. I haven't spoken that waywhen Jane was with me, for she wouldn't understand and would laugh,but I mean it, Mr. Speranza. It would be an honor--a great honor."

So the still protesting and rebellious Googoo was compelled to go afew feet away and lie down, while his mistress and the young manwhom he had attempted to devour bent their heads together over ascribbling-pad and talked and exclaimed during the whole of thathour and a full three-quarters of the next. Then the distant townclock in the steeple of the Congregational church boomed five timesand Miss Fosdick rose to her feet.

"Oh," she said, "it can't really be five o'clock, can it? But itis! What WILL mother fancy has become of me? I must go thisminute. Thank you, Mr. Speranza. I have enjoyed this so much.It has been a wonderful experience."

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining. She had grownhandsomer than ever during the winter months. Albert's eyes wereshining also as he impulsively seized her hand.

"Thank you, Miss Fosdick," he said. "You have helped me more thanI can tell you. I was about to give up in despair before you came,and now--now I KNOW I shall write the best thing I have ever done.And you will be responsible for it."

She caught her breath. "Oh, not really!" she exclaimed. "Youdon't mean it, really?"

"Indeed I do! If I might have your help and sympathy once inawhile, I believe--I believe I could do almost anything. Will youhelp me again some day? I shall be here almost every pleasantSaturday and Sunday afternoon. Will you come again?"

She hastened away, down the knoll and along the beach toward thehotel. Googoo followed her, turning occasionally to castdiabolical glances at the Speranza ankles. Albert gazed until thegraceful figure in the trim sport costume disappeared behind thecorner of the point of the beach. Just at the point she paused towave to him. He waved in return. Then he tramped homeward. Therewas deep sand beneath his feet and, later, pine-needles and grass.They were all alike to him, for he was traveling on air.

That evening at supper his radiant appearance caused comment.

"What makes you look so happy, Albert?" asked his grandmother."Seems to me I never saw you look so sort of--well, glorified, asyou might say. What is the reason?"

The glorified one reddened and was confused. He stammered that hedid not know, he was not aware of any particular reason.

Mrs. Ellis beamed upon him. "I presume likely his bookkeepin' atthe office has been goin' pretty well lately," she suggested.

Captain Zelote's gray eyes twinkled. "Cal'late he's been makin' upmore poetry about girls," was his offering. "Another one of thosepieces about teeth like pearls and hair all curls, or somethin'like that. Say, Al, why don't you poetry-makin' fellers try a newone once in a while? Say, 'Her hair's like rope and her face haslost hope.' Eh? Why not, for a change?"

The protests on the part of Olive and the housekeeper against thecaptain's innovation in poetry-making had the effect of distractingattention from Albert's "glorified" appearance. The young manhimself was thankful for the respite.

That night before he retired he took Madeline Fosdick's photographfrom the back of the drawer among the ties and collars and lookedat it for five minutes at least. She was a handsome girl,certainly. Not that that made any difference to him. And she wasan intelligent girl; she understood his poetry and appreciated it.Yes, and she understood him, too, almost as well as Helen. . . .Helen! He hastily returned the Fosdick photograph to the drawer;but this time he did not put it quite so near the back.

On the following Saturday he was early at the knoll, a brand-newscribbling-pad in his pocket and in his mind divine gems which werelater, and with Miss Fosdick's assistance, to be strung into aglittering necklace of lyric song and draped, with the stringer'scompliments, about the throat of a grateful muse. But no gems werestrung that day. Madeline did not put in an appearance, and by andby it began to rain, and Albert walked home, damp, dejected, anddisgusted. When, a day or two later, he met Miss Fosdick at thepost office and asked why she had not come he learned that hermother had insisted upon a motor trip to Wapatomac that afternoon.

"Besides," she said, "you surely mustn't expect me EVERY Saturday."

"No," he admitted grudgingly, "I suppose not. But you will comesometimes, won't you? I have a perfectly lovely idea for a balladand I want to ask your advice about it."

"Oh, do you really? You're not making fun? You mean that myadvice is really worth something? I can't believe it."

He convinced her that it was, and the next Saturday afternoon theyspent together at the inspiration point among the dunes, at workupon the ballad. It was not finished on that occasion, nor on thenext, for it was an unusually long ballad, but progress was made,glorious progress.

And so, during that Summer, as the Fosdick residence upon the BayRoad grew and grew, so did the acquaintanceship, the friendship,the poetic partnership between the Fosdick daughter and thegrandson of Captain Zelotes Snow grow and grow. They met almostevery Saturday, they met at the post office on week evenings,occasionally they saw each other for a moment after church onSunday mornings. Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick could not imagine why heronly child cared to attend that stuffy little country church andhear that prosy Kendall minister drone on and on. "I hope, mydear, that I am as punctilious in my religious duties as theaverage woman, but one Kendall sermon was sufficient for me, thankyou. What you see in THAT church to please you, _I_ can't guess."

If she had attended as often as Madeline did she might have guessedand saved herself much. But she was busy organizing, in connectionwith Mrs. Seabury Calvin, a Literary Society among the summerpeople of South Harniss. The Society was to begin work with thediscussion of the poetry of Rabindranath Tagore. Mrs. Fosdicksaid she doted on Tagore; Mrs. Calvin expressed herself as beingpositively insane about him. A warm friendship had sprung upbetween the two ladies, as each was particularly fond of shining asa literary light and neither under any circumstances permitted anew lion to roar unheard in her neighborhood, provided, of course,that the said roarings had been previously endorsed and welladvertised by the critics and the press.

So Mrs. Fosdick was too busy to accompany Madeline to church onSunday or to walk on Saturday, and the young lady was left towander pretty much at her own sweet will. That sweet will led herfootsteps to trails frequented by Albert Speranza and they walkedand talked and poetized together. As for Mr. Fletcher Fosdick, hewas busy at his office in New York and came to South Harniss onlyfor infrequent week-ends.

The walks and talks and poetizings were innocent enough. Neitherof the partners in poesy had the least idea of anything more thanbeing just that. They liked each other, they had come to call eachother by their Christian names, and on Albert's bureau Madeline'sphotograph now stood openly and without apology. Albert hadconvinced himself there was nothing to apologize for. She was hisfriend, that was all. He liked to write and she liked to help him--er--well, just as Helen used to when she was at home. He did notthink of Helen quite as often as formerly, nor were his letters toher as frequent or as long.

So the summer passed and late August came, the last Saturdayafternoon of that month. Albert and Madeline were together,walking together along the beach from the knoll where they had metso often. It was six o'clock and the beach was deserted. Therewas little wind, the tiny waves were lapping and plashing along theshore, and the rosy light of the sinking sun lay warm upon thewater and the sand. They were thinking and speaking of the summerwhich was so near its end.

"It has been a wonderful summer, hasn't it?" said Albert.

"Yes, wonderful," agreed Madeline.

"Yes, I--I--by George, I never believed a summer could be sowonderful."

"Nor I."

Silence. Then Albert, looking at her, saw her eyes looking intohis and saw in them--

He kissed her.

That morning Albert Speranza had arisen as usual, a casual,careless, perfectly human young fellow. He went to bed that nighta superman, an archangel, a demi-god, with his head in the cloudsand the earth a cloth of gold beneath his feet. Life was a pathwaythrough Paradise arched with rainbows.

He and Madeline Fosdick loved each other madly, devotedly. Theywere engaged to be married. They had plighted troth. They were tobe each other's, and no one else's, for ever--and ever--and ever.

CHAPTER X

The remainder of that summer was a paradisical meandering over thecloth of gold beneath the rainbows. Albert and his Madeline metoften, very often. Few poems were written at these meetings. Whytrouble to put penciled lines on paper when the entire universe wasa poem especially composed for your benefit? The lovers sat uponthe knoll amid the sand dunes and gazed at the bay and talked ofthemselves separately, individually, and, more especially,collectively. They strolled through the same woody lanes anddiscussed the same satisfactory subjects. They met at the postoffice or at the drug store and gazed into each other's eyes. And,what was the most astonishing thing about it all, their secretremained undiscovered. Undiscovered, that is to say, by those bywhom discovery would have meant calamity. The gossips among thetownspeople winked and chuckled and cal'lated Fletcher Fosdick hadbetter look out or his girl would be took into the firm of Z. Snowand Co. Issachar Price uttered sarcastic and sly innuendoes. JaneKelsey and her set ragged the pair occasionally. But even thesenever really suspected that the affair was serious. And neitherMrs. Fletcher Fosdick nor Captain and Mrs. Zelotes Snow gave it aminute's attention.

It was serious enough with the principals, however. To them it wasthe only serious matter in the world. Not that they faced ordiscussed the future with earnest and complete attention. Some dayor other--that was of course the mutually accepted idea--some dayor other they were to marry. In the meantime here was the blissfulpresent with its roses and rainbows and here, for each, was theother. What would be likely to happen when the Fosdick parentslearned of the engagement of their only child to the assistantbookkeeper of the South Harniss lumber and hardware company wasunpleasant to contemplate, so why contemplate it? Upon one pointthey were agreed--never, never, NEVER would they give each otherup. No power on earth--which included parents and grandparents--should or could separate them.

Albert's conscience troubled him slightly at first when he thoughtof Helen Kendall. It had been in reality such a short time--although of course it seemed ages and ages--since he had fanciedhimself in love with her. Only the previous fall--yes, eventhat very spring, he had asked her to pledge herself to him.Fortunately--oh, how very fortunately!--she had refused, and he hadbeen left free. Now he knew that his fancied love for her had beenmerely a passing whim, a delusion of the moment. This--THIS whichhe was now experiencing was the grand passion of his life. Hewrote a poem with the title, "The Greater Love"--and sold it, too,to a sensational periodical which circulated largely amongsentimental shopgirls. It is but truthful to state that the editorof the magazine to which he first submitted it sent it back withthe brief note--"This is a trifle too syrupy for our use. Fear thepages might stick. Why not send us another war verse?" Alberttreated the note and the editor with the contempt they deserved.He pitied the latter; poor soul, doubtless HE had never known thegreater love.

He and Madeline had agreed that they would tell no one--no one atall--of their betrothal. It should be their own precious secretfor the present. So, under the circumstances, he could not writeHelen the news. But ought he to write her at all? That questionbothered him not a little. He no longer loved her--in fact, he wasnow certain that he never had loved her--but he liked her, and hewanted her to keep on liking him. And she wrote to him withregularity. What ought he to do about writing her?

He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with sometrepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter.Her opinion was decisive and promptly given. Of course he must notwrite Helen again. "How would you like it if I corresponded withanother fellow?" she asked. Candor forced him to admit that heshould not like it at all. "But I want to behave decently," hesaid. "She is merely a friend of mine"--oh, how short is memory!--"but we have been friends for a long time and I wouldn't want tohurt her feelings." "No, instead you prefer to hurt mine." "Now,dearest, be reasonable." It was their nearest approach to aquarrel and was a very, very sad affair. The making-up was sweet,of course, but the question of further correspondence with HelenKendall remained just where it was at the beginning. And,meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed.

September came far, far too soon--came and ended. And with itended also the stay of the Fosdicks in South Harniss. Albert andMadeline said good-by at their rendezvous by the beach. It was asad, a tearful, but a very precious farewell. They would writeeach other every day, they would think of each other every minuteof every day, they would live through the winter somehow and lookforward to the next spring and their next meeting.

"You will write--oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?"begged Madeline. "You know how I love them. And whenever I seeone of your poems in print I shall be so proud of you--of MY poet."

Albert promised to write ever and ever so many. He felt that therewould be no difficulty in writing reams of poems--inspired,glorious poems. The difficulty would be in restraining himselffrom writing too many of them. With Madeline Fosdick as aninspiration, poetizing became as natural as breathing.

Then, which was unusual for them, they spoke of the future, thedim, vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation'spoet laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his gloryand wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels. The disagreeableproblems connected with the future they ignored, or casuallydismissed with, "Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by."Oh, it was a wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful,bitter-sweet afternoon.

And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'soffice window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train,saw that train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant asmall hand waved behind the dingy glass of the car window. His ownhand waved in reply. Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke thesilence.

"Who was you flappin' your flipper at?" inquired Issachar. "Girl,I'll bet you! Never saw such a critter as you be to chase afterthe girls. Which one is it this time?"

Albert made no reply. Between embarrassment and sorrow he wasincapable of speech. Issachar, however, was not in that condition;at all times when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Pricecould, and usually did, speak.

"Which one is it this time, Al?" demanded Issy. "Eh? Crimus, seehim get red! Haw, haw! Labe," to Mr. Keeler, who came into theoffice from the inner room, "which girl do you cal'late Al here iswavin' by-bye to this mornin'? Who's goin' away on the cars thismornin', Labe?"

Laban, his hands full of the morning mail, absently replied that hedidn't know.

"Eh? Oh, I don't know. The Small folks are goin' to Boston, Ibelieve. And George Bartlett's goin' to Ostable on court business,he told me. Oh, yes, I believe Cap'n Lote said that Fosdick womanand her daughter were goin' back to New York. Back to New York--yes--yes--yes."

The assistant bookkeeper was still silent. The crimson, however,was leaving his face and the said face was paling rapidly. Thiswas an ominous sign had Mr. Price but known it. He did not know itand cackled merrily on,

"Guess I'll have to tell Helen when she comes back home," heannounced. "Cal'late I'll put a flea in her ear. 'Helen,' I'llsay, 'don't feel too bad now, don't cry and get your handkerchiefall soakin', or nothin' like that. I just feel it's my duty totell ye that your little Albert is sparkin' up to somebody else.He's waitin' on a party by the name of Padeline--no, Madeline--Woodtick--no, Fosdick--and . . .' Here! let go of me! What are youdoin'?"

That last question was in the nature of a gurgle. Albert, his facenow very white indeed, had strode across the office, seized thespeaker by the front of his flannel shirt and backed him againstthe wall.

"Promise nawthin'! Fosdick! What in time do I care for Fosdicks,Madelines or Padelines or Dandelions or--"

His sentence stopped just there. The remainder of it was washedback and down his throat by the deluge from the bucket. Overcomeby shock and surprise, Mr. Price leaned back against the wall andslid slowly down that wall until he reclined in a sitting posture,upon the floor.

"Crimustee," he gasped, as soon as he could articulate, "I'm--awk--I'm drownded."

Albert put down the empty bucket and picked up the full one.

"Promise," he said again.

Laban Keeler rubbed his chin.

"I'd promise if I was you, Is," he said. "You're some subject torheumatism, you know."

"I--I--darn ye, I promise!" shouted Issachar. Albert put down thebucket and walked back to his desk. Laban watched him curiously,smiling just a little. Then he turned to Mr. Price, who wasscrambling to his feet.

"Better get your mop and swab up here, Is," he said. "Cap'nLote'll be in 'most any minute."

When Captain Zelotes did return to the office, Issachar wasindustriously sweeping out, Albert was hard at work at the books,and Laban was still rubbing his chin and smiling at nothing inparticular.

He held out his hand, and Issachar, after a momentary hesitation,took it.

"I forgive you this time, Al," he said solemnly, "but don't neverdo nothin' like it again, will ye? When I went home for dinneryesterday noon I give you my word my clothes was kind of dampisheven then. If it hadn't been nice warm sunshine and I was outdoors and dried off considerable I'd a had to change everything,underclothes and all, and 'tain't but the middle of the week yet."

His ducking had an effect which Albert noticed with considerablesatisfaction--he was never quite as flippantly personal in hiscomments concerning the assistant bookkeeper. He treated thelatter, if not with respect, at least with something distantly akinto it.

After Madeline's departure the world was very lonely indeed.Albert wrote long, long letters and received replies which variedin length but never in devotion. Miss Fosdick was obliged to becautious in her correspondence with her lover. "You will forgiveme if this is not much more than a note, won't you, dear?" shewrote. "Mother seems to be very curious of late about my lettersand to whom I write and I had to just steal the opportunity thismorning." An older and more apprehensive person might have foundMrs. Fosdick's sudden interest in her daughter's correspondencesuspicious and a trifle alarming, but Albert never dreamed of beingalarmed.

He wrote many poems, all dealing with love and lovers, and soldsome of them. He wrote no more letters to Helen. She, too, hadceased to write him, doubtless because of the lack of reply to herlast two or three letters. His conscience still troubled him aboutHelen; he could not help feeling that his treatment of her had notbeen exactly honorable. Yet what else under the circumstancescould he do? From Mr. Kendall he learned that she was coming hometo spend Thanksgiving. He would see her then. She would ask himquestions? What should his answer be? He faced the situation inanticipation many, many times, usually after he had gone to bed atnight, and lay awake through long torturing hours in consequence.

But when at last Helen and he did meet, the day before Thanksgiving,their meeting was not at all the dreadful ordeal he had feared. Hergreeting was as frank and cordial as it had always been, and therewas no reproach in her tone or manner. She did not even ask him whyhe had stopped writing. It was he, himself, who referred to thatsubject, and he did so as they walked together down the main road.Just why he referred to it he could not probably have told. He wasaware only that he felt mean and contemptible and that he must offersome explanation. His not having any to offer made the task ratherdifficult.

But she saved him the trouble. She interrupted one of hisblundering, stumbling sentences in the middle.

He stopped and stared at her. "You understand?" he repeated."Why--why, no, you don't. You can't."

"Yes, I can, or I think I can. You have changed your mind, that isall."

"Changed my mind?"

"Yes. Don't you remember I told you you would change your mindabout--well, about me? You were so sure you cared so very, verymuch for me, you know. And I said you mustn't promise anythingbecause I thought you would change your mind. And you have. Thatis it, isn't it? You have found some one else."

"No one told me. But I think I can even guess who it is you havefound. It is Madeline Fosdick, isn't it?"

His amazement now was so open-mouthed as well as open-eyed that shecould not help smiling.

"Don't! Don't stare at me like that," she whispered. "Every oneis looking at you. There is old Captain Pease on the other side ofthe street; I'm sure he thinks you have had a stroke or something.Here! Walk down our road a little way toward home with me. We cantalk as we walk. I'm sure," she added, with just the least bit ofchange in her tone, "that your Madeline won't object to our beingtogether to that extent."

She led the way down the side street toward the parsonage and hefollowed her. He was still speechless from surprise.

"Well," she went on, after a moment, "aren't you going to sayanything?"

"But--but, Helen," he faltered, "how did you know?"

She smiled again. "Then it IS Madeline," she said. "I thought itmust be."

"You--you thought-- What made you think so?"

For an instant she seemed on the point of losing her patience.

Then she turned and laid her hand on his arm.

"Oh, Al," she said, "please don't think I am altogether an idiot.I surmised when your letters began to grow shorter and--well,different--that there was something or some one who was changingthem, and I suspected it was some one. When you stopped writingaltogether, I KNEW there must be. Then father wrote in his lettersabout you and about meeting you, and so often Madeline Fosdick waswherever he met you. So I guessed--and, you see, I guessed right."

He seized her hand.

"Oh, Helen," he cried, "if you only knew how mean I have felt andhow ashamed I am of the way I have treated you! But, you see, I--ICOULDN'T write you and tell you because we had agreed to keep it asecret. I couldn't tell ANY ONE."